All the Hopeful Lovers (10 page)

‘No point in being too rigid,’ she says.

Alice remembers Caspar’s phone call.

‘I think Guy may be coming tomorrow.’

‘Here? Why?’

‘Cas called him. He wants to see him.’

‘Why on earth does Cas want to see Guy?’

‘I don’t really know.’

‘I have to work tomorrow, I think. I wish I didn’t.’

Tomorrow is Saturday. Alice is long used to her mother’s irregular hours. Liz turns her attention to Alan.

‘How’s it been for you, love? How was your meeting?’

‘Triumphant. They like my work so much they want me to do it all again.’

‘Oh, no.’

Alice says, ‘I’ve been telling him to stop doing film work. I’m right, aren’t I, Mum? He hates it.’

‘Yes, of course. Let’s all stop. I’m so sick of doing stupid interviews with stupid people. I was kept waiting for two and a half hours yesterday before being granted the unique privilege of fifteen minutes with guess who? Alexandra Burke. And she’s not even allowed to say anything bitchy about Simon Cowell.’

‘Who is Alexandra Burke?’ says Alan.

‘Oh, Alan,’ says Alice. ‘Even I know that. She’s the one who sings “Hallelujah” on
The X-Factor
.’

Alan gives a shrug. It all means nothing to him.

‘Anyway,’ says Liz, ‘I expect I won’t have to suffer much longer. Everyone at work is expecting the knife to fall. They’re talking about cutting four hundred jobs.’

‘Might you lose your job, Mum?’

‘Of course. None of us is irreplaceable.’

‘But you’ve been there for ever! And you’re so good!’

‘Well, we don’t care, do we?’ says Alan. ‘If they don’t want her, we don’t want them. I’ve got money coming in. We won’t starve.’

‘But Alan—’

He flashes Alice a look and she says no more.

‘The thing about film work,’ says Alan, ‘is it’s a pain in the bum, but it is quite sociable. And all those drafts they make you do are like a master class in craft. I’d never want to give it up altogether.’

Alice says nothing and Liz doesn’t seem to notice. She’s starting to forage in the fridge for something for their supper.

‘Stop that,’ says Alan. ‘Supper’s all sorted. I made a lasagne before I left, and I’ve just taken it out of the fridge and put it in the oven.’

‘Oh, you angel.’

He is too, thinks Alice. He’s a good man. He just notices things, and then quietly gets on and does what has to be done, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And he loves Mum, anyone can see that. So it’s possible. Good men do exist. Unless he’s the only one.

She runs her mind over the boys she’s met in the last year or so. None of them comes close. Without exception they are dull and immature. Not stupid, some can talk very cleverly, on subjects she can’t even begin to understand. But they are all unaware, somehow enclosed, their senses dimmed, so that they have no idea what to say when she’s with them, how to behave. They don’t really perceive her at all. It’s like she’s on the other side of soundproof glass, and most of the time they’re not even looking. How on earth do people ever get together? We flounder about in the fog, crash into each other, cling on for a while, and so are presumed by others to be a couple. But no actual personal connection has been made at all.

So why do I care so much? If it’s all a fraud and a delusion, who wants it? Better to let ten years pass, and we can all grow up, and then try again when we’re capable of knowing each other. Liz was thirty when she met Alan. No, thirty-one. When she was Alice’s age she went out with Guy, and look what a disaster that was. So give it ten years. Let herself off. It’s not as if the boys are forming an orderly line.

But no harm in meeting up with Jack.

Belinda is the kitchen making the clafoutis for pudding because that’s what she planned and she can’t think what else to do. Chloe is upstairs on the phone, she can hear her voice shrilling away, the high notes of her exclamations, but not the words. The red cabbage is simmering on the slow plate. The potatoes are in the oven. The steaks won’t go on until the last minute. There’s the table to lay before Tom gets back.

She pours herself another glass of wine and takes a big gulp. Getting drunk. The stage of numb paralysis has passed, and Belinda finds herself in an unfamiliar world where nothing is what she supposed it to be. Has she been blind for years? Does everyone know but her?

She keeps switching between panic and disbelief. She tells herself Lisa made it all up to hurt her, to break up her marriage, to get Tom for herself. Tom can’t be having an affair. They have a good marriage. So it’s not perfect, but it works, doesn’t it?

She argues with him in her head as she mixes the eggs and cornflour and sugar and cream and halved plums. You’re not having an affair, Tom. Don’t give me that crap. You’re not the type. If anyone round here is going to have an affair it’s me. Except I’m not, because I’d never do anything to hurt you.

Tell me you would never do anything to hurt me, either. Just say it. Say you wouldn’t fall for a younger woman and leave me alone and ashamed and a whole lot poorer. You wouldn’t do that, would you, Tom? Because that would be shit, shit, shit.

She sprinkles sugar onto the inside of a buttered dish and scoops the sticky batter into it from the mixing bowl. Tom loves puddings, wishes I made them more often. So here’s a pudding for you.

Shit, shit, shit. Of course he’s having an affair.

He’ll be back any minute. No, in half an hour or so. She’s timing dinner for eight-thirty, the cabbage and the potatoes will be done by then, and she needs a moment to freshen up.

When do I tell him I know? Not in front of Chloe. Chloe doesn’t have to know. Belinda realizes with a shock that she’s ashamed before her daughter. This is a kind of failure as a woman, she doesn’t want Chloe’s pity. Or Chloe’s pain.

What’s going on, Tom? Why are you pissing on all our lives? If you are.

Oh, Christ, I was going to do baked tomatoes.

Might as well get the clafoutis in. That way it can sit for an hour after it’s cooked. You don’t want to eat it hot.

She gets two big beef tomatoes from the fridge and cuts them in half, and there’s only three of them for dinner, unless you’d like to invite your floozy, would you, Tom? Your tart to share the tart. Out with the mezzaluna to fine-chop the garlic and thyme and the oregano. Grate the Parmesan in the Magimix. A drizzle of olive oil. How many times have I done this in my life? How many times have you done it with her? If you have. Which I doubt, because half the time you can’t even rise to the occasion, can you?

Is that why? Oh, God. Why did I never think of that?

The panic terror pushes up her throat from somewhere deep in her belly, and she has to press her hands onto the island unit and let her head hang down. She feels giddy with fear, her mouth’s dry, her heart pounding.

Don’t make me be one of them. I don’t want to be a left woman. Haven’t I been a good wife?

The giddiness passes. She drains her glass of wine.

A door bangs in a bedroom above. The rattle of Chloe’s trainers on the stairs. The flash of her blonde head in the hall doorway.

‘I’m going out, Mum. Won’t be long.’

‘Hey! What about dinner?’

‘I’ll be back.’

‘Eight-thirty. We’re eating at eight-thirty!’

‘Okay!’

The front door slams.

Belinda sprinkles the herbs onto the halved tomatoes, then the parmesan, then the olive oil. Maybe there’ll be no dinner at eight-thirty. Maybe by then it’ll all be over. But what can you do? You just carry on as if nothing’s ever going to change.

She lifts the pan lid on the cabbage. It’s been cooking for an hour, slowly absorbing the red wine vinegar and the grated orange rind and the cloves. Let it stew: the longer the better. So that’s it until it’s time to do the steaks. She checks the time. Twenty past seven. He’ll be home any minute.

Suddenly, seized with a sense of urgency, she runs upstairs to their bedroom. She pulls off her jersey, puts on a pale green silk top that she knows looks good on her. A little remedial work on her face. Brush her hair. A touch of scent, not too much. She doesn’t usually tart herself up for Tom’s homecoming. It happens every day, for God’s sake.

As she comes down the stairs again she feels a sudden urge to phone someone and tell them all about it. She needs advice, a sympathetic ear, a second opinion. But who? And what’s she to say? ‘Guess what? Tom’s been caught diddling someone in marketing in a Portakabin.’ Except he hasn’t. Nothing is certain. If she tells a friend it will become real, and it isn’t real yet. It may be a lot of fuss about nothing.

Tears sting Belinda’s eyes. Hold me in your arms, Tom. Tell me it’s not true. Tell me I’m your girl. So many nights my body twined in yours, I can’t count how many. Don’t make me spend my nights alone.

Now she’s crying actual tears. She dabs them away with a drying-up cloth warm from the Aga rail. She presses it lightly to her cheeks, grateful for its comfort.

What an idiot! I forgot to set the timer for the clafoutis! How long has it been in the oven? Can’t be more than five minutes. Give it twenty more.

Red plums, red tomato, red cabbage, red meat. This is a red meal. How did that happen? Every meal needs visual variety. I’m losing my touch.

She laughs at that. What touch? You have to admit this is a ridiculous situation. If we were both young and gorgeous it might be tragic. But he’s fifty-five years old, with a thirty-seven inch waist and a bald head, and I’m as wrinkly as a prune. We’re old enough to be grandparents, if only Alex would start to get serious about his life.

Don’t make me tell Alex. Don’t make me tell Chloe. Don’t make me tell myself.

The shudder of gravel. His car in the drive. You have to give it to him, he’s always punctual. If he says he’ll be home by seven-thirty, he’s home by seven-thirty.

She makes her decision in the few short moments between the sound of the car door closing and the opening of the front door. She’ll say nothing. There’ll be time enough later, after dinner, after Chloe’s gone back up to her room. This is supposed to be a celebration dinner to welcome Chloe home.

He bustles in the same as ever.

‘Hi, darling. Sorry I’m late. Did you get my message?’

‘Yes. Michelle called.’

‘Is Chloe back?’

‘She’s gone out.’

‘What, already?’

‘She’ll be back for dinner.’

‘I’m going to grab a quick shower, okay?’

And off he goes, up the stairs. No sign that anything is different. There’s a rush and an energy to him that she hasn’t remarked before, it’s nothing new, but he brings with him a breeze of activity that fills the house. Tom’s always been a man who never has enough time, he doesn’t loiter. She likes that about him. She likes many things about him.

Christ, the not knowing is going to kill me. I have to know.

She abandons the wait-till-later approach. There are no tell-tale signs. There is no easing into knowledge, no dab of anaesthetic before the knife cuts. You know or you don’t know. The only question is how to open the box.

I’ve been hearing rumours, Tom. Probably just stupid gossip. But you would tell me, wouldn’t you?

She starts laying the table for dinner. These automatic tasks bring their own form of comfort. Surely if I lay down the knives and forks in their due places my life will go on in its familiar way? These patterns form our life. They shape us and bind us. Surely he feels that too.

She hears him singing upstairs. He has a good singing voice. He’s singing a Christmas carol, ‘Once in Royal David’s City’. Someone’s happy.

He comes downstairs and into the kitchen pink and clean as a baby, wearing jeans and a blue polo shirt, still humming his carol.

‘Smells good,’ he says. ‘I’m starving. How’s your day been?’

Belinda takes the lid from the heavy pan, grasps the pan handle with the oven gloves, and throws the red cabbage at him. She had no idea she was going to do it. He just looked so pleased with himself.

‘You fucker!’ she screams. ‘You fucking fucker!’

He’s turning aside towards the fridge to get himself a glass of wine as she throws the slushy contents of the pan, and her aim is poor, and the soft cabbage doesn’t throw very far. It splatters onto the floor and over part of the dresser, but none of it hits him.

‘What – what – what—’

Shock makes him stammer.

‘I’m going to kill you!’ she screams. ‘How could you do it? You fucking little fucker!’

Now he’s pawing the air with his palms, like someone trying to calm a horse.

‘Please – Belinda, please – what is this? What have I done?’

‘You know what you’ve done!’ She rages at him, entirely out of control, hearing herself with horror. She sounds like a witch. ‘Don’t give me that! You know what you’ve done!’

Somewhere below the level of rage there’s a cautionary instinct at work. She won’t name the crime. Let him confess. Or let him tell her there is no crime. Let him swear it’s all untrue.

‘I’ve done nothing! Where’s all this coming from? What am I supposed to have done?’

As suddenly as it flared up her rage subsides. Not because she believes him: quite the opposite. She can see it in his face and hear it in his voice. Of course it’s true. Why did she even bother to doubt it? An overwhelming weariness possesses her.

‘Oh, Tom. How could you?’

She sits down at the kitchen table and covers her face with her hands. He says nothing. No denial, then.

She waits in the merciless silence. So is this how it ends? Twenty-four years, two children, a home, a world. Can it all vanish in a puff of breath?

‘Please. Don’t cry. It’s nothing.’

She didn’t know she was crying again but it turns out she is. Sobbing softly into her hands.

‘I don’t know what you’ve been told but it’s nothing. I promise you. It means nothing. It’s just – oh, Christ, these things happen. Just a fling.’

A fling. Such an odd word. Like something you throw away, in a light-hearted manner. Only she’s the one he’s throwing away.

She hides her face in her hands, her voice muffled.

‘Everyone knows.’

She doesn’t want to look at him. Not yet.

He comes closer.

‘Belinda. Darling. I mean it. It’s nothing.’

Oh, let it be nothing. Let it never have happened. But this is a nothing that hurts her and frightens her so much.

‘Why?’ she says. ‘I don’t understand why.’

‘I don’t know why,’ he says. ‘Because it was there.’

Because it was there.
It
is another woman.
There
is in his arms. Do I want details? No. Yes. No. What does she give you that I don’t? How have I failed? Don’t ask. There’s no good answer to that.

‘It’s over,’ he says. ‘It won’t happen again. I swear.’

‘Over when?’

‘Now. From tonight.’

If she hadn’t found out he’d have carried on. He has no shame. He has no decency. He’d have gone on poking his, poking his—

‘You fucking fucker!’

She lashes out, catches him across one shoulder. Not looking to see where her blows land she hits and hits, feeling him flinch and cower before her rage. But he doesn’t retreat. Instead he advances. She feels his arms around her, partly restraining, partly embracing. She presses herself against him, sobbing.

‘Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.’

‘No one’s leaving. It’s all nothing. It’s all over.’

He strokes her back, holding her, placating her.

‘How could you do it, Tom?’

‘It’s over now. I promise.’

‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand.’

‘Hush, now. I’ve been stupid, that’s all. I’m very sorry. I won’t do it again. Here, let’s dry your eyes before Chloe gets back.’

The timer pings.

‘I have to get something out of the oven. I made a pudding.’

They part. She goes to the oven. She still hasn’t looked at him. She dare not look. She knows she’ll see the guilt in his eyes. She doesn’t know what to do with the anger and the hurt. The betrayal goes so deep, but he has no idea, he says it’s nothing, it’s over. It’s not nothing. It’s not over. It’s only just beginning.

Why am I taking the clafoutis out of the oven, when the cabbage is all over the floor? What do we do now? Have dinner like nothing’s happened?

How do you go on after the world’s ended?